


Won't Hurt Them

by bookjunkiecat



Series: People Will Talk [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After care, Anal Sex, Analingus, Bottom Greg, Bottoming from the Top, Consensual Sex, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Sugar Baby, Sugar Baby Greg, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Mycroft, Top Mycroft, Unequivocally happy ending, a wee bit of squabble, mostly its just other people being wankers, safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: A few months into their new relationship and cohabitation, Greg adjusts to life with Mycroft. When it's just the two of them, things are perfect. They fit together like two halves of a coin. It's when other people are involved that things get hairy. Luckily Greg and Mycroft are solid.Big ol' section of explicit daddy kink sex here with domination. Everything is consensual and everyone has fun.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: People Will Talk [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135193
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	Won't Hurt Them

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the very enthusiastic response to the first part of this new series. I must admit to having an absolutely wonderful time writing this, and it's a thrill and delight to know y'all have had as much fun reading it. There's a very healthy dollop of explicit consensual sex herein: heavy daddy kink, dom/sub undertones. Reach out to me in the comments or on Twitter @savvyblunders if you're concerned.

Singing at the top of his lungs, Greg pulled the Mercedes into the alley behind the house and put the gear in park. Queen’s ‘Somebody To Love’ was just starting, so of  _ course  _ he had to turn it up and stay put. Mycroft, alerted via text of his imminent arrival, had opened the back door to the garden and raised an eyebrow, reaching for the passenger door. “What are you--” he stopped asking foolish questions and dropped into the passenger seat. 

They sang together, mugging and holding hands until silliness drained away and they were smiling into one another’s eyes. Greg let his voice drop soulfully, “Oh won’t you give me somebody...to  _ looooove?”  _ He leaned in and kissed his boyfriend soundly, “Good job the universe brought us together, treacle, otherwise I’d be crying in my pint on karaoke night when this came up.”

“Foolish boy,” Mycroft scoffed gently, pressing an ardent kiss to the back of his hand. “You’d have been too busy fending off the advances of every red-blooded man in the club.”

“Thank god those days are behind me,” Greg said happily, bouncing out of the car. He smiled across the bonnet at his gorgeous, fit, sexy, devastatingly charming lover, “Only one I want to make any advances is you.” He blew him a kiss and bit his lip when Mycroft actually snatched it out of the air and pressed his hand to his mouth.  _ God. _

They made short work of carrying in the shopping. “Sorry I couldn’t come with you,” Mycroft sighed, “Unfortunately foreign dignitaries care little that we were out of loo roll.”

“Give over,” Greg laughed, twinkling at him as he tucked the tin of Mycroft’s favourite tea in the cupboard, “You’re thrilled you didn’t have to go to Tesco on a Saturday and rub elbows with the hoi polloi.”

Mycroft was busy putting away the ice cream--sorry,  _ gelato _ , and folding up the reusable shopping bags Greg had insisted they use “because plastic kills the environment, you old dinosaur.” He tsked regretfully, “Work calls take precedence even over the equal sharing of household duties, Gregory, you know that.”

Tipping his chin down to regard Mycroft over the top of imaginary glasses, Greg glared at him. He silently reminded his partner that calling him Gregory was only for initiating a certain type of fun, and not for trying to intimidate him into believing a load of nonsense. Hurriedly, Mycroft gave him a soothing smile, “That’s all over with, however, and we’ve the weekend free. Well, except for that charity do Sunday. But that’s just a tea and silent auction and I think we can be in and out in under two hours.”

“Glad they decided against the celebrity brunch,” Greg groused good-naturedly, whistling for the girls, who came running. He dropped to one knee and made a fuss over them. “I want to spend Sunday mornings in bed with my boyfriend, not eating rubbery eggs and tryin’ to stay awake while some underfed actress or over-sexed rocker blathers on.”

“Succinctly put, darling,” Mycroft laughed. He fastened the dogs' heads on. “I’ll meet you at the corner, hm?”

“Quicker’n two tugs of your dick, love.” Greg put the Mercedes away in the mews garage and locked up. Honestly, he didn’t mind doing the weekly shop alone; it was just more fun with Mycroft. Most things were. Especially his on-going attempts to teach his fifty-year old lover the finer points of ‘adulting,’ such as shopping on a budget, meal planning, and how not to get into a brawl with the chip and pin machine. Under his tutelage Mycroft had even become a semi-decent home cook. Together they split up most of the chores and tasks around the house, but Mycroft insisted on continuing to pay the twice weekly cleaning service and the weekly landscaping firm to see to the garden. Greg wasn’t so foolish as to shoot himself in the foot. 

He was slowly learning to let others do things for him--either Mycroft, or others, through Mycroft’s auspices. Pocketing the keys, Greg jogged down the alley and caught up with Mycroft and the dogs, Cherie and Schatzi, who were dancing impatiently. Mycroft had a membership to a very nice gym and had added Greg to his plan. The dogs had a friendly young uni student to take them for exhaustive walks three times a week, but Greg still preferred to link hands with his boyfriend and take the short walk to the neighborhood park for their exercise as a family. On weekends they tried to take the poodles out at least twice, usually to the park, with its spacious dog run. Greg had even enticed Mycroft into joining him in running around like a madman chasing the dogs, who loved every minute of it. Come to think of it, so did Greg.

Winded, Greg slowed to a jog, and Mycroft, the show-off bastard, breezed up to him, barely out of breath. It was criminally unfair that he was practically twice Greg’s age, a smoker, and still managed to be in better physical shape. “It’s all the calories I burn keeping up with you,” Mycroft liked to tease him.

“Slowing down?” Mycroft asked politely now.

“Old footy injury,” Greg rubbed his knee.

“You never played football.”

“Jesus, do you remember everything I ever told you?”

“Yes.” 

Greg swung him around for a kiss, pleased as punch. After a good hour of play they leashed the dogs and took the long way home, chatting about the holiday Mycroft proposed they take to the Maldives. “Sun, sand...you in a scandalous thong.”

“Sex, drinks wi’ lil umbrellas,” Greg teased,  _ “You  _ in a scandalous thong.”

“No one wants to see that, I assure you.”

“Way to make me feel special babes, calling me ‘no one.’”

“Outrageous flirt,” Mycroft accused, grinning, as he paused outside the news agents. “I’m just going to grab a couple of the foreign papers, a fresh pack of Rothmans...anything for you, darling?”

He emerged a few minutes later, also bearing a Mars bar for Greg and a couple of scratchers. “You do realize,” Mycroft said, amused, as he took both dogs' leads so Greg could see then and there if he were a winner, “that the likelihood of you winning anything significant is slim?”

“Don’t care,” he told him cheerfully, tossing the cards in the bin and brushing silver foil bits off his hands. “A bit of gambling is my only vice...aside from being a kept man.”

An older couple, exiting a shoe shop, gobbled at them. Mycroft gasped out smoke along with a laugh and transferred both leads to his left hand so he could tuck his right through Greg’s arm. “Darling, have I told you lately that I love you?”

Pretending to think, Greg tugged at his lower lip, “‘s probably been, oh, four hours?”

“Fucking criminal, that’s what that is,” Mycroft murmured with that particular deep, velvety tone which went from Greg’s crinkling scalp to his curling toes, making a healthy detour directly to his groin. Pulling him to a stop so he could draw Greg in for a kiss, Mycroft took his time, unmindful of the dogs tangling themselves around their legs, the passersby gawking. Someone bumped into them and a young voice said scornfully, “Get a room, you old geezer!”

“Fuck off!” Greg growled, hackles rising.

The young man, dressed head to toe in flashy designer sportswear, turned around, still walking, and smirked, “What are you going to do about it? Bit old to be a sugar baby, aren’t you?” He snickered with his equally wanky friends.

“ _ I”m  _ the kept man,” Mycroft said mildly, drawing horrified looks, and making Greg laugh. They turned their back on the public school arseholes dressed like chavs and walked on. “Young prick,” Mycroft snarled, low, sounding annoyed now.

Greg threw him a look as they approached their own front door, “Thought you didn’t mind, way you handled him.”

Mycroft sighed wearily, holding the panting dogs back as they crowded around Greg, who was unlocking the door, “I didn’t, I suppose, not really.” He closed and locked the door behind them and they unclipped the dogs, who trotted off to drink noisily at their water bowl. “Sometimes, however, I could cheerfully deck anyone who dares to offend you.”

“I wasn’t offended,” Greg said in surprise, pushing his trainers off with his toes. “It’s true, I  _ am  _ a sugar baby.”

Mycroft caught his arm and held his eyes, “I hope you know by now you’re more than that, darling boy.”

He went soft as sun-warmed caramel, sliding both arms around Mycroft’s neck and making the most of the two inches difference in their height. “Course I do, daddy,” he murmured, nibbling on Mycroft’s lower lip. He scratched fond fingers through Mycroft’s beautifully groomed beard, “Just as you’re more than the fella who buys me leather jackets and lets me drive his Mercedes--”

“ _ Our  _ Mercedes.”

“--’n all the loads of other things you do for me. Y’know that’s not why I’m with you.”

Mycroft smiled tenderly, hugging him tightly, “I do know it.”

“So the rest of the world c’n fuck off. We’re the only two what matters.”

Mycroft hummed approvingly and backed him until his back was against the door. “Well said, my love.” He lowered himself to his knees, blue eyes gleaming, “Now, unleash that fabulous cock and let me love you.”

Sundays were their days, and Sunday mornings were Greg’s favourite time of the week. Mycroft had been rising early for so many years that it was second nature at this point, and even on the weekends he was up before Greg. He would let the dogs into the garden, make himself a pot of tea, catch up on world news, and then wake Greg. It might be by bringing him a perfectly pressed cup of espresso, or by kissing him from his toes up, or, as today, by stroking him to hardness before he was awake. Greg woke with a gasp as the hot, wet confines of Mycroft’s mouth closed around him.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

“Christ, I love how musky you smell when you’ve been sleeping,” Mycroft pulled away long enough to praise him. Greg blushed. Mycroft, eyes on his face, smiled around his mouthful and Greg bit his lip. He knew Mycroft was a goner when he did that, and the groan it earned him was delicious. 

“Nng,” Greg groaned, stretching. He arched his back and pressed his hips upward, pushing his cock deeper down Mycroft’s throat, “Daddy…” he sighed, moving his legs restlessly, “Suck me, Daddy, god…”

“Want me to make you feel good, baby boy?”

He held Mycroft’s eyes, face going hot even though they’d been together for months now and this was nothing new. Something about the vulnerability, the taboo, made him go soft, and almost pliant. Except for his erection, which strained harder. “Daddy…”

“Shhh,” Mycroft soothed, stroked his hand firmly up and down Greg’s cock from the root to the tip. He tightened his fingers around Greg’s crown and moved a trifle faster, pulling his foreskin up and down. Greg keened softly. “You like that, I know. Daddy knows just what you like. What you want.”

Unable to help himself, Greg twisted his own nipples urgently between his fingers, trying to fuck Mycroft’s mouth. He was really horny first thing in the morning and all he wanted was to come fast and hard. Sometimes Mycroft let him and sometimes...sometimes he teased and tormented and made him wait. He never knew which it was going to be, which made it all more exciting. “Daddy,” he begged now, “let me come.”

“You want to come? Hmm?”

“Yeah...yeah,” he panted, trying to push into Mycroft’s mouth, but Mycroft was holding his hips down now with both powerful hands and Greg could only squirm. “Oh god,  _ now.” _

Mycroft had those tight brackets on either side of his mouth which meant he was fighting his urge to just give into Greg’s whiny demands. Bringing both of Greg’s wrists up over his head, Mycroft held them loosely with one hand, and slithered over him, to lie plastered to his side. Jacking him with just enough force and urgency to make Greg whimper, he whispered in his ear, “Do you need Rough Daddy or Soft Daddy?”

“Rough Daddy, Mycroft,  _ please!” _

Biting Greg’s mouth in a brutal kiss, Mycroft rolled him onto his stomach and then hauled at Greg’s legs, pulling him so his legs were off the bed, his belly pressed to the mattress. He raked nails down Greg’s back, making him pant, open-mouthed, with longing. He circled his fingers around Greg’s hole, and purred, “You’re still a little soft from last night, good.” Nipping and licking at Greg’s buttocks, Mycroft reached for the pump bottle on the nightstand. Without preamble he pressed his fingers inside; Greg jerked, and wailed. 

“It’s going to hurt if you don’t stay still.”

He pushed back willfully, giving a genuine grunt at the discomfort.

“Oh,” Mycroft said knowingly, “You want Really Rough Daddy.”

He nodded frantically. 

“Do you need to tell Daddy no?”

“Please don’t, Daddy,” Greg begged, writhing on Mycroft’s merciless fingers. He protested wordlessly when Mycroft stilled his hand. “Oh god.”

“Don’t what, baby?”

“Don’t fuck me. Please. Don’t fuck me hard. Don’t keep me from coming as long as possible.” He shuddered and pressed his erection to the mattress, chewing his lower lip. “Oh fuck,  _ Daddy...I really need it.” _

“Shh, baby,” Mycroft soothed, dropping into Soft Daddy for a moment. He climbed up the bed and kissed Greg’s cheek, stroked his hair, “What’s our safe word?”

“Azalea,” Greg said dutifully, writhing. He was going to burst before Mycroft ever got inside him at this rate. Tears pricked his eyes, “God, Daddy, please, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said regretfully, climbing off the bed and kicking Greg’s feet apart. He lined up, the hot press of his flesh making Greg hiss in anticipation. “But you’ve been  _ such  _ a bad boy, Gregory. Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you, but I’ll do what I must.”

Grinning into the mattress, Greg barely managed to keep from waving his arse at Mycroft like a primate in heat. Which he kind of was.  _ Fuck,  _ he really wanted to get railed into the mattress while screaming no. There was possibly something wrong with him, but since it turned Mycroft on too, who fucking cared? Unable to help himself, Greg pushed back, just a little, with his hips.

Mycroft smacked his arse, hard. Greg cried out, in real shock and pain, blood rushing straight to his groin. He fisted the sheets and dropped his head to his crossed arms, praying for Mycroft get fucking started already. Jesus Christ, the man was a sadistic bas--

“I’ve told you, and  _ told you,”  _ Mycroft snarled, shoving into him, “but you keep making me discipline you.” Greg cried out, guttural. “Haven’t I told you?” Mycroft’s fingers were digging into his hips as he pulled back and shoved forward, fucking into him hard. “Why won’t you listen to Daddy? Why do you make me punish you?”

“I’m sorry, D-daddy!” Greg was already sweating, and his dick was rock hard. He wanted to frot the mattress, but fear, both real and pretend, held him back. If he did that, Mycroft might not let him come at all, and then he would actually die. “I’m s-such a bad boy.”

“You  _ are _ bad,” Mycroft grunted, sounding like he was enjoying himself. If his dick was any indication, he really, really was. “I’ll punish you as many times as I have to.” His tone dropped again into that special register, “You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you?”

Greg’s toes were just touching the floor, so he couldn’t really get leverage to move, and his arms weren’t long enough to reach across the mattress to the edge. He was pushed and pulled with Mycroft’s thrusts, at the mercy of his power. Mycroft’s elegant, manicured hands were strong enough to hold Greg’s hips down as he drove in and out of him. Mycroft was standing over him, pressing him into the mattress, teaching him a lesson…The whimper that flew from Greg sounded panicked, and Mycroft slowed. “Sweetheart?”

“Close,” he gasped out. Mycroft’s thrusts were pushing his dick deliciously back and forth against the bed, and his nipples were being abraded and he was probably going to have fingertip bruises on his hips again and fucking hell he was about two seconds away from coming--

Slowing, Mycroft suddenly grew lazy, his pace slowing, until he wasn’t moving, but simply resting inside Greg.

“No…”

“Shh…”

Digging his fingers into the sheets, Greg squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Come on, up on your feet by the bed now.”

Mycroft smacked his arse and pulled out, leaving Greg hissing. He glared at him, but Mycroft looked unaffected, despite his ruffled hair and damp chest. Moving to lie back on the bed, he arranged the pillows until he was comfortable and then patted his thighs. “Come here, sweetheart, climb up on Daddy’s lap.” His eyes glinted, “I want to give you a ride.”

Trying not to stumble over himself in his haste, Greg settled himself into place, sliding down on Mycroft’s dick with a needy moan. His dick was standing straight up against his belly, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the scarlet head, and he desperately wanted a wank. He knew what happened if he did that though. The thought quickened his breath.

Folding his arms behind his head, Mycroft surveyed him lazily. “Alright, Gregory, show Daddy how good you learned last time. Ride me.”

Pushing his feet up under his thighs Greg braced his hands against Mycroft’s legs and rose up, up, until the head of Mycroft’s luscious cock was nearly out of him, then lowered himself with agonizing slowness back down. His balls rested on Mycroft’s belly, Mycroft’s entire length snug inside him. Repeating it over and over, he felt his legs begin to shake. Making a noise of protest, he telegraphed his distress to Mycroft with his expression. 

“Legs?”

“Yeah.”   
  


“Get comfortable, then.”

Settling himself back so his knees were taking his weight, Greg sat up straight on Mycroft’s dick and waited in anticipation until Mycroft began to fuck him, long and slow and soft. Each roll of his hips lifted Greg a little, and soon Mycroft began to glisten with sweat. They were both glazed and flushed, and Greg couldn’t help himself. Licking the sweat from his lips, eyes on Mycroft’s beautiful face, he tugged at his cock. Mycroft allowed it for a minute, and Greg’s orgasm roared closer. Just as he was approaching the point of no return, Mycroft wickedly pulled his hand away. “That’s mine. Don’t touch unless I say.”

Greg pouted, glaring at Mycroft. 

“Oh, someone’s in a bad mood.” Mycroft licked the pad of his thumb and brushed it over Greg’s nipple, smiled at the gasp, did it again. Greg felt his dick throb, his groin pound with blood, as Mycroft continued to fuck him good and slow, those tormenting fingers twisting and tugging and plucking at his nipples. He sobbed, overcome, aware he was begging. Begging to be allowed to touch himself, to come. “Not yet.”

Frustrated, he nearly blurted out his safe word, but as previously observed, he wasn’t fool enough to shoot himself in the foot. Besides, this was part of the fun, even though it sometimes felt like punishment. Showing him mercy at last, Mycroft circled Greg in his hand and began to pull with the same slow rhythm with which he was still thrusting. Greg panted, head dropping forward, and clutched at Mycroft’s arms desperately. “Please, Mycroft, Daddy, oh baby, please…”

Mycroft was sweating freely, his hair dark with dampness. His eyes were jewel bright and shining with love, “Just a little longer, sweetheart. Oh Greg, darling, you’re doing  _ so good.” _

In earnest he began to fuck Greg, bouncing him on his dick as he withdrew and thrust. He was pounding Greg’s prostate now, and he warned him in a broken voice. Mycroft shifted him with strong hands and rocked Greg a little, “Not yet, sweetheart, I want to come first and then I’ll let you.” Greg moaned again, broken, wanting. “Oh fuck,” Mycroft hissed, and began to climax, face fracturing with need. He surged up into Greg, soaking him, and Greg whined again at the hot trickle of cum out of his arse. “Fuck, baby, oh god, baby, yes. Fuck me, yes. Your arse is fucking  _ perfect.  _ Jesus Christ, Greg, yeah.”

Shaking, stilling, Mycroft lay panting. Nerves keening, Greg waited, wanting urgently to move. He licked his lips and Mycroft’s lids lifted. “God, sweetheart,” he crooned, voice soft, “look at you. Come here.” 

Greg found himself on his back, legs spread up and out, Mycroft between them. Staring at Mycroft’s wild curls, he watched his lover bow his head to lick a stripe up Greg’s crack, tongue at his balls. Wild to reach for himself, Greg clenched his fists and waited. It might not be much longer, though, if Mycroft continued to eat him out like that. No one would have pictured it, the cool, suave Mycroft Holmes, tongue deep in his young lovers arse, panting and rasping and calling him sweet boy. “Myc, please, god, Christ, let me come!”

“Alright darling, you’ve been so good for me, so obedient,” Mycroft permitted, reaching under his pillow, “you can touch yourself.”

Greg’s fist moved over his dick in a blur as he cursed and strained, trying to fuck up into his fist and down onto Mycroft’s tongue. But it was suddenly taken away and he growled a denial, only to shout when Mycroft’s tongue was replaced by a slim, flexible silicone toy. Mycroft met his eyes, smiled, and said softly, “Come now, Greg.” He turned the dildo on and the vibration sent Greg over the edge. Unable to vocalize anything other than sounds, he felt his thighs clench around Mycroft’s head as he flooded his mouth, white ropes of cum spilling from around Mycroft’s lips. “Fuck!” Greg shouted, pushing one last desperate time into his lover’s mouth, and then falling into a shaking heap on the bed.

He lost track of time for a while, only dimly aware of Mycroft; his soft voice, his softer hands. The gentle warmth of a flannel cleaning him, the cool softness of a fresh sheet being pulled up. “Come here, love,” Mycroft whispered, and folded Greg into his arms to gently stroke every part of him he could reach. “I’m so proud of you. You were magnificent.”

Tingling warmly, Greg’s lips formed words but fell silent, and he allowed himself to drift, feeling his lips curled into a contented smile. He fell asleep between one breath and the next, Mycroft’s hand caressing ceaselessly at his back.

“That was ghastly,” Mycroft sighed later that day, holding the door to allow Greg to precede him into the house.

“If by  _ ghastly,” _ Greg mocked Mycroft’s posh public school accent, “You mean it fuckin’ sucked, yeah, spot on, bright boy.”

Mycroft rubbed Greg’s back soothingly, “I’d apologize for my friends, but none of them were there.”

Greg’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned into Mycroft’s comforting embrace, “Not your fault,” he mumbled, “buncha wankers.”

“High society wankers,” Mycroft agreed. “And the food was dreadful. Gelato, sofa, telly?”

“Hell yeah,” Greg sighed, and went upstairs to change out of the poncy suit he’d worn.

Ensconced on the couch a few hours later, bellies full of high-end ice cream and home made spag bol, Greg nudged Mycroft’s thigh with his toes until he looked away from the telly and at him. Mycroft paused the film and gave him his full attention, yet another thing that Greg loved about him. Schatzi, who had been disturbed by Greg’s movements, returned her head to his ankle and went back to sleep. Cherie was lying along the cushions behind him, her nose tickling his neck with every twitch and exhale. He’d never been happier--except for one thing.

“So. What did they say about me where I  _ couldn’t  _ hear?” And as he watched Mycroft formulate a polite lie, he frowned sternly, “Cuz the shit they said where I  _ was  _ meant to hear was pretty grim.”

“The usual sort of thing. You know.”

“I don’t, that’s why I asked.” He was spoiling for a fight and he knew it, and he hated it. They were so happy, and then shite like this happened. Or dinner with him mum, stiff and awful and like being grilled by the Gestapo. Why the fuck couldn’t everyone stay the fuck out of their fucking business?

Mycroft laid his head back against the couch cushions but rolled his head so he could look at Greg. “That you’re younger than my usual ‘companions.’ That you’re obviously…” he hesitated slightly, “...’a superior piece of arse.’ That I could dress you up all I wanted in Saville Row but we all know you for what you are.”

“Which is?” Greg asked pugnaciously.

“An East End gold digger who must suck dick like a champ.”

Greg stayed silent, processing this, then he suddenly began laughing. It had a slightly hysterical edge, true, which excused Mycroft from his look of alarm, but he was also a bit...tickled. “Well, that’s honestly about as inventive as anybody could expect from that lot.”

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft squeezed his foot. “You’re...not angry?”

“For them telling the truth?” With an apology to the dogs, he sat up, easing himself into Mycroft’s welcoming lap. Sitting sideways across his thighs, he nipped at Mycroft’s jaw, “You told me yourself, I  _ am  _ younger by far than anyone you’ve dated. I  _ told  _ you that suit makes me look like a muppet. I  _ am  _ a superior piece of ass and I  _ do  _ suck dick like a champ, if your ‘oh yeah Gregs’ are anything to go by.” He eased open the fly of Mycroft’s trousers, “They got one thing wrong though.”

“Oh?” Mycroft seemed distracted as Greg eased him from his briefs. The dogs, used to them by now, settled down on the other sofa to sleep.

“Mmhmm. I’m not after your gold.” Greg kissed him, open-mouthed, pressing back into the cushions until the dogs, grumbling, relocated, and Mycroft was gazing up at him from his back, eyes brilliant with lust and love. “Unless by ‘gold’ you mean this arse…”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As this fic goes on, Greg descends more and more into an East End boy and is skating very close to resembling Eggsy. Which I'm okay with, cuz I loves me some Hartwin fic and it's only a matter of time til I write it *shrug*


End file.
